But Then I Got High
by ilovethesoundofviolins
Summary: After Artie dislocates his shoulder, Puck decides to bring him some "medicine." Set slightly after 2x06.


**Author's Note: **An anon on Tumblr gave me a "Puck and Artie get stoned together" prompt a while ago, and I finally finished it :) Set during Season 2 shortly after episode 6, "Never Been Kissed."

* * *

It's when Artie realizes that he only has one fully functioning limb that he starts to feel like he's really hit rock bottom.

Okay, so it's not _that _bad, actually.

But _you_ try operating a wheelchair while your right shoulder is badly dislocated and your entire right arm is in a sling.

Artie's been rendered practically motionless. Kind of. He can move the wheelchair with his left arm, if he pushes one wheel and then switches his grip to push the other. It works, but he goes at a snail's pace. It takes him a whole minute just to get out of bed in the mornings now, and another five to inch the chair down the hall to the bathroom. It's just really, unnecessarily difficult.

Artie has a doctor's note that lets him stay out of school for three weeks at a minimum, until he can at least push himself forward with two hands. The school agreed to it for his safety, health, and physical convenience, and they gave him Independent Study work to do while he's away.

But did Artie mention that he's also right handed? On top of everything else, he can't write for shit, so many of his assignments remain unfinished.

He can type on the computer very slowly, and that's when, after three days of sitting at home while his parents are at work all day, Artie hits up somebody that he knows from the AV club on Facebook, to complain about how much pain he's in. Shoulder dislocation sucks, and he's pretty miserable, he explains in the message. The painkillers that the doctors gave him help, but they also make his stomach upset, so he can't take nearly as many as he needs to. Over the counter Tylenol and Advil just won't cut it either. He just wants a medicine that's easy and simple, without all the side effects.

He knows that this AV club guy has a special kind of "medicine" on hand. He used to buy from Sandy Rhyerson back in the day, and he still has a huge stash of that leftover. So, in a fit of impatience and harsh pain in his shoulder, Artie pays the guy to bring him some "medicine" to his house one morning before school.

He's heard, from his favorite rap songs of course, that weed is the simplest kind of pain medication. He's also heard that it makes you hella happy, too, and Artie could use a little bit of that.

But Artie has never done illegal drugs before. Because they're, well, _illegal._

So now he stares at the bag of what looks like thick, dead grass as it rests in his hand, and he frowns. He can't believe he just did this, oh god. He's sweaty and he feels guilty, and he feels like his parents are going to find out and ground him forever, and he actually has no idea how to use this stuff either.

He's listened to enough rap songs to know that you need a blunt or a pipe or somethin', but where is he supposed to get that from? The AV guy was stingy enough as it was, making Artie pay thirty bucks and then telling him that he was on his own if he wanted a smoking piece.

Artie doesn't have any other badass friends who he could smoke with.

Correction. _Didn't _have any other badass friends who he could smoke with.

As of last week, he remembers, he's friends with McKinley High School's resident badass, none other than Noah Puckerman.

(+)

Puck notices that Artie isn't in school right away. He heard that Rick The Stick and the Hockey Guys pushed Artie down the tallest flight of stairs in school the other day, but he doesn't know that Artie's shoulder is dislocated until he calls Artie, after Artie's been out of school for four days.

"Want me to kick their asses?" Puck asks hastily, after Artie tells him about the injury he sustained.

"You're on probation," Artie answers.

Puck hesitates. "So?"

"So if you get into a fight, you'll go back to Juvie, and as we've recently discovered, it's not one of your favorite places to frequent," Artie says. "Besides, Rick The Stick and his 'friends' are suspended. Hopefully forever."

"Oh," Puck says. He hadn't even realized that they were gone. "Well how're you feeling?"

"Horrible," Artie says. "The pain medicine does _not _work the way I need it to, and I haven't seen the light of day in far too long."

Artie sighs and glances around his bedroom, which he hasn't left in hours. He hasn't even been outside in days, and it shows. His room is a mess, and normally Artie is a bit of a neat freak, but he can't clean with one arm. He's in a lot of pain, and the only thing he's been doing is playing World of Warcraft (one-handed, which has made him suck) and watching film documentaries on his laptop in his pajamas. (He hasn't bathed in two days either, but he doesn't tell Puck that).

"Sucks," is all Puck says in response.

Artie thinks about the weed, now. It's good timing that Puck called, because Artie's been working up the nerve to call Puck and ask if he can borrow a pipe anyway.

The illegal bag of grassy substance still sits in Artie's desk drawer, untouched. It's been untouched since he got it yesterday. He swallows hard, not sure why he's nervous to ask Puck about borrowing a piece. Maybe he and Puck aren't close enough for this yet. Maybe Puck won't believe Artie when he says that he wants to smoke weed. (Artie's not cool enough to smoke weed anyway, and this isn't like an 'Oh, I'm a pothead and I'm gonna blaze for kicks because I'm badass' thing. This is an 'I need medical help, I need to relax, and I'm a little desperate' thing. It's different. And it's lame).

"Hey, Puck?" Artie says into the phone.

"Shit," Puck says. He sounds like he's texting, Artie must be on speaker phone. "I gotta go. Santana's hitting me up. I think she wants to make out. Or have sex. Or give me head or something." Artie cringes on the other line. "But I just wanted to say I miss seeing you at school, little dude."

Artie smiles a little. "I mi—"

"Also, I really need help with my Geometry homework," Puck adds, cutting him off. "So I may stop by in a few hours."

"Oh. Um, sure. My parents won't be here, and I've got nothing else to do," Artie says dryly.

Puck says goodbye and hangs up. Artie doesn't call back to ask about the piece. He winces in pain as he reaches with his left arm over to the desk drawer, to stare at the bag of weed.

He contemplates eating it for a quick release. But that's just disgusting. He then wonders how difficult it would be to make those brownies.

($)

Meanwhile, Puck has some time to kill before Santana shows up to his house, so he goes online to research 'dislocated shoulders,' trying to see what he can do to help his friend.

He feels bad that Artie's hurt. Artie's a really cool guy, and yeah, like two weeks ago _Puck himself_ was one of those assholes who'd pushed Artie's wheelchair down stairs and into dumpsters—but he's not anymore. He likes Artie (and were it not for his probation, he'd seriously kick Rick The Stick's ass). He knows a couple people who illegally deal pharmaceuticals, so maybe he can look online to find the name of a medication that would actually work for Artie. And then he can illegally deal the deal to his dopest bro-in-a-wheelchair.

On some random blog, Puck finds that someone resorted to smoking weed to keep them from focusing on the pain of their shoulder dislocation. And, well then, Puck thinks. Why didn't he think of that? Screw getting Artie some pills to pop. When he goes over to get help with his Geometry homework, he's going to demand that Artie uses his pot stash and takes a rip from his bong.

They're gonna get high together, and Artie's gonna feel much better.

At around seven, Artie hears the doorbell ring from his bedroom. He stops tying his essay (which is only at 200 words after two hours), and he sighs. It takes him a really, really long time to inch his stupid chair to the door. Puck starts banging on the door and ringing the bell to the tune of "Drop It Like It's Hot," because he's impatient.

Artie finally gets to the door and opens it. His hair is disheveled, he looks like he's in pain, and Puck, who has a backpack over his shoulder, raises his eyebrows.

"Hey. You look pretty bad," Puck says to Artie, coming inside.

Artie closes the door behind him, rolling his eyes. "Thanks."

"But never fear, Young Jedi In A Wheelchair," Puck continues, walking towards Artie's bedroom. Artie exhales, shaking out his left hand and staying put near the door. "'Cause I brought you something that's gonna numb all your dislocated pain."

Artie stares at Puck's back. Puck stops, turns, and realizes Artie isn't following him down the hallway.

"What?" Puck prompts.

"I could really use a push," Artie says.

Puck pushes Artie back into his bedroom. He leaves Artie in the middle of the floor and then goes to shut the door, taking the rug on Artie's floor and shoving it up against the crack between door and floor.

"Um. What are you doing?" Artie asks, adjusting his glasses.

Puck takes off his backpack excitedly and unzips it. Artie watches. Puck proceeds to pull out a glass, foot-long bong, and a pocket-sized lighter, and Artie's eyes go wide.

"Oh my god," he says.

"Look," Puck says, pulling his stash from the pocket of his jeans. His hands move quickly and he's smiling, beginning to pack the bowl of the bong. "I know that you're kind of a dweeb and you don't do drugs or whatever—no offense—but you said that you were in pain, and this is _definitely _gonna help you—"

"No, I—"

Puck pauses and looks up at Artie.

Artie smiles.

"I already have weed," Artie says.

Puck's jaw drops a little.

"Okay, you are _way_ cooler than I thought you were." His eyes are wide. "You smoke?"

"Well," Artie says. "It's—I've never—actually smoked before. But the other day I was really feeling the—_agony_of my shoulder dislocation, and someone from the AV club has, or had, a connection. It's been sitting in my desk drawer for a day and I've been too—nervous to use it."

"Where's your stash at?" Puck asks.

Artie tells him to get it from the desk drawer. Puck does, takes out a nub, smells it, and feels it in his hand.

"Your shit is way better than mine," he says, packing some of it in the bowl along with his own. "Next time we do this we're buying from your dealer."

"Wait—next time?" Artie repeats.

Puck looks up at Artie like 'next time' is a given, and brings the bong to his chair. He places it in Artie's lap, and Artie holds onto the glass with his one functioning hand.

"Yeah, dude," Puck says, one hand on the carb and the other on the lighter. "I'll come over, bring the ganja, and we can smoke every day until you're arm's not all fucked up anymore, if you want."

Artie stares down at the bong anxiously.

"Wait," he says, when Puck snaps a flame up. Puck stops and Artie looks at him with wide blue eyes behind his glasses. "Are you sure this will help me?" He looks at the door, and his closed window. "And won't it smell? I can_not _get caught by my parents, they'll take away my Internet connection and I'll be grounded for light years."

"Dude, relax," Puck says. "I got Febreeze in my backpack, and I'll block up your door with a towel. Every good stoner comes prepared. And trust me, if you take good enough hits, my friend, you're not gonna feel that pain in your arm. You're not gonna feel _anything_."

Artie takes a deep breath, looks Puck in the eyes, and nods. He feels his arm slightly twinge, but he stiffens up, puts on his best "cool" face, and says,

"Tell me what to do, yo."

A moment later, by Puck's instruction, Artie has his lips over the opening of the bong and Puck is going to do all the work for him. In front of him, Puck lights the nub on fire in the carb and tells Artie start inhaling. Artie is confused as the water starts to bubble and smoke floats up the channel and he starts to feel his throat and lungs filling up with hot air, and it itches and scratches and_ burns_.

He chokes a bit as he continues to suck up the air and his eyes water and Puck removes the carb.

"Keep sucking!" Puck says, as Artie looks like about explode.

Artie sucks in his breath, keeps the smoke in for about a second longer, and then all of a sudden the itching and dryness in his throat becomes too harsh, and he's sputtering all over the place, coughing at the bad taste in his mouth and feeling like he's gone without water for weeks straight.

As he hacks and coughs, Puck grins at him.

"Huh, you cleared the whole thing," he says, impressed, taking the bong. "Must be 'cause you're a good singer and you have good lungs. You're definitely gonna feel that in, like, ten minutes."

Artie is squinting. He adjusts his glasses, watching as Puck turns the nub over a bit and then gets ready to hit the bong himself.

"It smells awful in here," Artie says, worriedly. He tries to clear his throat. "And—tastes awful."

"Don't tell me you're gonna be one of those paranoid high people," Puck says. He's sitting on Artie's floor cross legged as he takes a hit like it's easy for him. When he blows out the smoke, he makes O's with his tongue. Artie frowns and stares at him.

"I don't feel high," Artie says. He shifts a bit in his chair and it hurts his arm and shoulder. "I've been led to believe through my research and my extensive knowledge of rap music that marijuana is one of those drugs that works—instantly."

"You're thinking about it too much." Puck places the bong back in his lap. "Take another hit."

Artie looks hesitant at first. But Puck smiles at him, and he can't help but smile back. And he clears the bong, again.

Another three hits and an hour later, and Artie is on lying his back in the middle of the floor, right next to Puck, swearing up and down that he can see magical colors and flashing lights and distant galaxies in the ceiling.

"Artie, you are _so high right now_," Puck chuckles at him.

Artie has been laughing for two minutes straight. Going between those silent, muffled, gargling laughs and those loud, obnoxious boisterous ones. He doesn't even feel like he's lying down anymore. He can't feel the floor beneath him. He feels like he's floating. Through the dark, vast abyss of space. He feels like he always has been. He feels like floating is what life is all about. He can't even remember what he was doing with his life before he started floating. Soaring. Flying. He never wants to come down. He never wants to walk, er, roll again.

He can't tell whether or not he just said any of that out loud either, but judging by the way Puck is curling up at his side, laughing hard into his shoulder, he has an inkling that he just did.

"Oh, man," Puck says, putting a hand on Artie's shoulder, and Artie feels like Puck's hand is heavy, made of lead. "You're hilarious, dude."

"Hey, hey—we should shotgun," Artie is saying all of a sudden, or maybe it isn't all of a sudden, he can't tell what the passage of time is anymore.

Puck begins to laugh again.

"You know what shotgunning is?"

Artie slowly drawls out his words.

"_Hell yeah_ I do."

Puck looks over at him.

"I like you Artie, but not like that."

"I don't like you but not like that either, yo," is the languid reply.

Puck snorts.

"That didn't even make any sense!"

Artie continues to laugh.

"Get—get the bong. Come on, go get it! I'm lame, I can't get up."

"If you smoke anymore you're gonna pass out."

"Is that even physically possible?"

"I don't know man, I'm not an astrolologist."

"Biologist."

"Whatever."

Puck slithers towards Artie's vacant wheelchair, knocks the bong from the seat, and then drags it back with him over to the middle of the floor. Then Puck helps Artie half-sit-up, quietly cackling at how huge, red and dilated Artie's eyes are right now, behind the frames of his goofy, crooked glasses.

"I'll show you how to shotgun, but only 'cause it's you," Puck tells Artie now, pulling the bag of weed from his pockets and packing the bowl again, slowly. Artie watches him in hazy awe like he's performing some kind of witchcraft.

"Okay, just tell me when you're coming," Artie says, closing his eyes, smiling lazily.

Puck chuckles. "Whoa dude, don't get ahead of yourself now. I may be a whore, but even I don't fuck on the first date."

Artie giggles and then sits with his mouth slightly open.

Puck takes another hit and then leans over to Artie, pressing his lips over his.

Artie feels the hot, bitter smoke slowly enter his mouth, curling around his tongue, prickling the backs of his tonsils; he feels the pressure of Puck's mouth, the dry, chapped, warm halves of his lips, and then all of a sudden Puck is leaning back again and Artie is frowning, attempting to hold the smoke in.

He doesn't last more than three seconds. He coughs, wipes the smoke away from his face, and then he falls onto his back, mouth unraveling into a lazy smile once more.

"You're so badass," Artie says now, closing his eyes and seeing shooting stars and vibrant meteors and massive black holes in the galaxy of his mind. "You always make me feel cool."

Puck stares at Artie on his back, smiles at him, and it takes him about two minutes of processing before he finally says back,

"Anytime, bro."


End file.
